


From a Mustard Seed it Grows

by BeautifullyObsessed



Series: Crimes of the Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, a night at the theatre, a night on the town, and yes--eventually--there will be Romance, birthday celebration, canon timeline divergent, concurrent along the way with The Hounds of Baskerville, sometime after A Scandal in Belgravia, starting at the beginning (finally), the most ordinary things can lead to the extraordinary, ulterior motive? of course--he wouldn't be Sherlock if there wasn't one lurking there somewhere, where have I seen you before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes charge of a birthday celebration for Mrs. Hudson.  As she requested, just a low key night out with "her boys"--dinner & a trip to the theatre.  When John sees an old acquaintance there, the evening turns more interesting. Even such an inauspicious beginning, like a seed, can lead to a beautiful flowering. There's a first meeting that isn't really a first.  And there will be curiosity that begs a second. What combination of wit, humor and chemistry is enough to capture the attention of the worlds only Consulting Detective? And once attained, can it be kept from devolving into boredom? That will turn out to be quite a balancing act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Beginning for a story I’ve been telling all out of order. The moments come as they may, and I write them as inspired, then become so eager to see them in print that I bounce about like a pingpong ball. Bear with me please, Kind Reader, as I hope it is a pleasant tale in all. And please bear with my OC, as she means only the best, entering this already established world.
> 
> I, of course, don’t have any claim to the BBC Sherlock world, and am entirely enamored by its every detail, as provided by the many Artists involved in its creation. All credit to them, and to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I never in my life dreamed Sherlock Holmes could capture my imagination so!
> 
> Also thanks to my very special Beta {known in some precincts as TheBannedAuthor} for her advice, support & timely contribution of an idea which helped get this beginning finally crystallized. Love you forever, my dear! She actually wrote a little story that serves as a prologue to this tale and its posted elsewhere in this site if you should care to check it out.
> 
> And with that all being said…hoping you ENJOY!

John had planned the evening with careful attention to the details that would make it go as smoothly as possible. Tickets for a production of “Twelfth Night”, being performed in Stratford, East London. Fairly far off West End, granted, but John had heard some good things about it and the seats were very reasonably priced. He also knew the biggest spanner in the works would be Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson had asked simply for a “night out with my boys” when John had inquired what she would like for her birthday, and he was determined not to disappoint her. Of course he’d had very little—well frankly, NO—help from Sherlock; as usual, he couldn’t have been bothered with mundane details, and every time John had asked for his opinion about the plans, he either got a terse response or none at all. So be it. At the very least, John had resolved that Sherlock would be fully participating in the evening’s festivities.

John knew, as well, that any best-laid plans could swiftly go astray where Sherlock was involved. Accordingly, he’s arranged for the three of them to dine at Angelo’s, where the owner’s debt of gratitude to Holmes would guarantee prompt seating and service, thus ensuring they wouldn’t be late for the theatre. Hopefully. If Sherlock didn’t hang them up too long before departure from 221B. John, trying not to sound as irritated as he actually felt, shouted up the stairs, “Sherlock, curtain’s at 7:30, if we hope to get some dinner first we really need to leave  _now_.”

************************************************************************************************************************************************

The actress playing Viola looked so familiar; John could swear he’d seen her before. She actually seemed like someone he  _should_  recognize. As the lights came up for interval, he rapidly paged through the programme. She was listed as the understudy for Viola, and a member of the Ensemble. He continued looking, till he spotted her picture next to her biography. “Tessa DeMauro, American in London, enjoying the greatest adventure of her life in Shakespeare’s own City, makes her first appearance with our Company. She holds a BFA in Acting from Emerson College in Boston, with additional training at RADA. Her previous roles include Shakespeare’s Juliet, Beatrice & Lady Anne ( _Richard III_ ), the title role in  _Mary of Scotland,_ Shen Te in  _The Good Woman of Setzuan,_ and Euripides’ Medea, as well as numerous appearances in regional & summer stock productions throughout New England.”

John muttered under his breath “Tessa DeMauro, Tessa DeMauro, I know I know her, but where do I know her from?” He shook his head, perplexed; it was right in the tip of his tongue; something to do with his time in Afghanistan—and then he had it. He’d served with her fiancée; he’d met Tessa several times at social events designed to network family members of servicemen scheduled for tours of duty. But with that recollection, came something more. Hal Barnes had been killed in service only two weeks before he was set to stand down from deployment. The memory sobered John immediately.

Mrs. Hudson, seated between “her boys” was chatting in a sort of stream of consciousness—regarding her impressions of the show and other performances she’d seen and the people she’d seen them with— and Sherlock  _looked_  like he was listening, but John could tell he really wasn’t hearing a word their landlady was saying. He had that look he got when his mind was far away, striving to work out a complex problem or trying to remember a very relevant bit of data that could point him in the direction needed to solve a case. He began to leaf through his programme as well, stopping at a particular page, then nodding his head as though he’d found what he’d been looking for. Mrs. Hudson continued on, oblivious to their not quite listening to her.

When she paused for breath (or perhaps having finally run out of things to say) John was quick to get a word in. “Turns out I know the actress playing Viola; I served….”, but before he could finish, Sherlock ran right over him, “Well, we didn’t actually meet her, but I remember her as well.”

John drew a complete blank, not unusual when Sherlock expected him to remember something he hadn’t paid too close attention to in the first place.

Sherlock went on, exhibiting his usual impatience with what he considered to be John’s faulty memory. “The clerk from ASDA, when that idiot was trying to make a fraudulent return? The chainsaw, John.”

John took a beat, as this part did sound familiar, then the memory came to mind, “But she wasn’t an American….”

"Well, obviously she is. That is quite surprising, her accent at the store was impeccable. I’d have placed her in Chelsea for certain." Sherlock nodded his head again, acknowledging the young woman’s skill in actually fooling him. That was a rarity, and rarer still for him to admit it to anyone but himself. "Which begs the question: just why the charade?"

The house lights began to flicker, warning patrons to return to their seats for the commencement of the second act, putting an end to their conversation.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

As the final applause wound down, people began gathering their belongings, programmes and such, preparing to leave the theatre. Mrs. Hudson was chattering excitedly about how wonderful she thought the production was, and how surprising it was to see an American actress carry off the role so well. Sherlock stood, staring at the empty stage, seeming unaware of the conversation beside him; he was clearly thinking something through, but what it could be was a mystery to John. Eventually Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson “Wouldn’t you like to meet that young woman—the American actress? It seems John knows her. I’ll bet she’d love to see a familiar face, and we’d all have the opportunity to tell her what a brilliant job she did.” He then looked to his friend “Well, John, what do you think? You heard Mrs. Hudson, and what a special birthday treat it would be to see backstage and meet one of the leads.”

Momentarily dumbfounded by Sherlock’s uncharacteristic request, John quickly realized—in the face of Sherlock’s very forced smile—that there  _had_ to be an ulterior motive lurking behind his enthusiastic suggestion. But Mrs. Hudson grew immediately more excited at the thought of meeting the actress, so John knew their course was set. Damn Sherlock for throwing this in his lap and expecting him to make it happen, with no preparation.

So just how  _was_  he going to make this happen? The theatre had quickly emptied, so that their little party was the last of the audience left in the hall. Ushers had begun to move across the aisles, picking up discarded programmes and debris, and setting right those seats left down. He supposed he could start with one of them. He walked up the aisle, picking out one he thought looked least likely to think he was a stalker type, while turning the Watson charm up to full volume. He cleared his throat before saying,”Excuse me, miss.”

Clearly middle-aged, the woman looked up, and John could see his use of the flattering “miss” rather than “ma’am” had not had its intended effect. Great start John, he thought, before he continued, “I wonder if you could help me.”

The woman raised a brow, looking at him a bit warily, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Yes?” she replied, flatly.

John tuned back to see Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock still standing in their row of seats, watching him with high expectation. He looked back to the usher, “Well, you see,” he paused, wagering that some hesitance might disarm her a bit, “my friends and I were hoping to get in touch with one of the performers. She’s an old friend of mine,” John grimaced inwardly at the blatant exaggeration, “and we came tonight not even knowing she was in the play. Is there any chance you could get a message back to her?”

"Really?" she replied, "Don’t you think you could come up with something more original?" She tsk’ed pointedly and turned to resume collecting programmes.  

"No, really," John declared, taking a few steps into the row where she was working, "Haven’t seen her in a few years, she was engaged to a friend of mine, I was just hoping to catch up a bit." He paused, and then added with emphasis, "Really."

The woman heaved a sigh and shook her head. “Alright, I suppose I can check—if she’s still here.” She pursed her lips in exaggerated agitation. “And which lovely is it you’ll be wanting to,” she framed the next in air quotes “be ‘catching up a bit’ with?”

"Um…Ms. DeMauro, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble". John shot her what he hoped was his most grateful expression. She shook her head dubiously, "And who should I shall is calling?"

"John Watson….um, tell her Dr. John Watson". It occurred to him suddenly that Tessa just might not remember him. Too late to worry about that he supposed; nothing ventured, after all, nothing gained.

"You and your friends, go wait out in the vestibule. I’ll be out shortly to let you know what’s what." Muttering under her breath, she walked to the front of the theatre, going through the exit door to the left of the stage.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were moving in John’s direction. “We’re to wait in the lobby,” he told them. “She’ll let us know shortly if Tessa can see us.”

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

Waiting in the deserted lobby, John began to wonder if the usher had even really spoken to the actress, when he heard his name being called. He turned to face the voice, and found Tessa walking towards him, smiling, an arm extended to greet him. She appeared to be carrying a terra-cotta planter containing tulips in the other. He took a few steps towards her, and she treated him to an amiable (albeit one-armed) embrace. Her cheek against his, she said warmly “Oh John, this is a marvelous surprise!” She moved back to look him in the eyes. “I had no idea you were back, let alone living in London.”

"Well yes," he replied, glad to see she was comfortable in greeting him, "a couple years now." John had remembered her as young, pretty and vivacious, as Hal had squired her about those military functions; standing before him now, he saw she had grown into a woman’s beauty, laced with confidence. This maturity needn’t surprise him, he told himself, reckoning she’d been through much in the intervening years.

He found himself meeting her lively smile with a grin of his own. “But look at you, making it big on the London stage. Can we expect to see more of this in the future?”

"Your mouth to God’s ears, John." she responded, a happy grin lighting her whole face, "This has been a huge break for me, and I’m loving every minute of it!" Tessa glanced over at Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, flashing them a friendly smile, then turning back to John. "But you  _are_  going to introduce me to your friends?”

"Yes, right" he replied, motioning slightly for them to join him. "Tessa DeMauro, I’d like you to meet a very dear woman and the reason we’re even here tonight, Martha Hudson." He paused, then remembering, added "We’re actually here to celebrate her birthday."

Tessa immediately extended her free hand to Mrs. Hudson, telling her she was glad to meet her and wishing her all the best for her birthday.

Sherlock had hung back a moment or two, observing the three, their heads inclined towards one another, before joining in. “Perhaps Ms. DeMauro might care to join us for a birthday toast in Mrs. Hudson’s honor?” He tilted his head slightly in greeting, as Tessa turned her attention towards him. John noticed her eyes widen just a touch and her quick intake of breath, though he couldn’t be sure it was recognition that dawned on her face, or something else. She bit her lip and smiled at his friend, and John was suddenly  _certain_  that it was a case of something else. He shook his head, smiling himself, sure that despite Sherlock’s unerring observational skills, he was likely to have missed the meaning behind Tessa’s subtle cues.

"And this is my, uh… "John paused; even with their years of working and living together, he always found introducing Sherlock as "his" anything was slightly uncomfortable, "my friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock extended his hand to her, formal and stiff as John had seen him do on countless occasions when social niceties were called for. “A pleasure, Ms. DeMauro,” he said as his hand encompassed hers, “Thoroughly enjoyed your performance.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth crept upward just a bit; in this case, however, John could see his smile was genuine.

Tessa looked down a moment, seeming humbled by the compliment, then looked back at Sherlock, boldly meeting his firm gaze. “Why thank you, Mr. Holmes, that’s very kind of you to say so.” Her eyes lingered on Sherlock’s a few moments more, as though she was waiting for a further response. When none came, she turned back to John, who broke the silence.

John nodded at Tessa, “A birthday toast sounds like just the thing right now. Can you recommend something close by?” She bit her lip, concentrating a moment, then answered, “Yes, there’s a cozy little place about a block over. We could walk there in about five minutes.” Tessa looked over to Mrs. Hudson, wanting to be sure she was up for the short stroll.

In the absence of any further comment from Sherlock or the women, John made the final call, “Then I guess that’s the plan. Tessa, would you lead the way?”

"I’d be delighted." She started toward the double doors, and John slipped ahead to hold one open for her and the others. Always the gentleman, John offered to carry the pot for Tessa, and she gratefully handed it to him. It wasn’t as heavy as he’d expected, the terra-cotta turning out to be a plastic replica. He moved to walk at Tessa’s side, and they began to chat affably, catching up on recent events. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson followed quietly behind, she occasionally commenting on sights along the way, Sherlock maintaining his usual circumspect demeanor.


	2. Chapter 2

The sign over the door read  _"Fiddler’s Green"_  and featured a ram’s skull, the horns decked with wildflowers, beneath a pair of crossed cavalry swords. Opening the door, John was met with the mixed aromas of good ale and classic pub cuisine.  The bar itself was packed shoulder to shoulder, and the music that greeted them was thunderous, a Celtic Rock group enthusiastically hammering away at the far side of the room.  There was a very small area in front of the stage, where several couples and a motley mix of patrons were dancing. 

John quickly turned to Tessa, leaning in close so she could hear him above the musical din.  ”I thought you said this place is cozy.”

"Oh, sorry,” she replied, grimacing, "I’ve never been in here this late at night.".  She turned toward Mrs. Hudson, concerned it was all too much for the older woman.  Before she could ask, Mrs. Hudson patted her arm, smiling, and “It’s all right dear.  It’s not the first time I’ve been in a place like this.  Why don’t we get a table?"

John and Tessa both began to scan the room, looking for a spot where the four could comfortably sit.  John spied one before too long, and shouted so all three could hear, “Right over there,” motioning in that direction.  They followed closely behind him.

The round table was rather small, with only three chairs around it, but with no other option, they took it.  John glanced about and saw a spare chair at a nearby table, asking those seated there if he could grab it.  He quickly pulled it over to sit with his group.  He realized he was still holding the tulips, and placed them on the table.  It made an awkward centerpiece, the flowers tall enough to partially block the view of the person sitting opposite.

A server arrived within minutes, setting a mixed bowl of honey roasted nuts and cashews on the table.  She took their drink order, and disappeared into the crowd.  While they waited, John, Tessa and Mrs. Hudson slid off their jackets, draping them on the back of their chairs.  Sherlock elected to remove only his scarf, folding it roughly and tucking it in one of the many pockets of his greatcoat.

John and Tessa were busy continuing their conversation from the walk over, when the drinks came to the table.  Again, it was left to John to lead the way.  He lifted his glass of Guinness Stout, “Well then, to many happy returns, Mrs. Hudson.”  Sherlock raised his lager, remaining silent, while Tessa held up her wine stem, saying “Here, here” before taking a swallow.  Mrs. Hudson beamed at the attention, then took a sip of her grasshopper, shrugging her shoulders in delight at the cool flavor. “Oh that’s a good one,” she said, smiling at Tessa.

About this time, the lead singer of the band announced they would be breaking for a bit, reminding the crowd they had a couple of sets left to play, and extolling them to drink up in the meantime.  The temporary end of the music allowed the small talk between the three to continue more comfortably, Sherlock silently observing what he could between the plant greens.  Tessa was an animated conversationalist, and had John and Mrs. Hudson laughing at times, regaling them with funny stories from rehearsals in the run up to the show, and odd experiences with overly enthusiastic audience members.  Before too long, they had ordered another round of drinks.

Sherlock was still quiet, taking in the conversation.  John had noticed his silence, and though it wasn’t unusual behavior for his friend, he was slightly irritated with the fact that it was Sherlock that had suggested they have drinks in the first place, yet was sitting there aloof and enigmatic.  John tried to think more reasonably about it; it could be worse, Sherlock  _could_ be looking as though he wanted to be anywhere _but_  there. John found himself seriously wondering just what  _was_  going on behind Sherlock’s sphinxlike gaze.   When the server arrived with the drinks, there was at last a pause in the conversation.  It was at this point that Sherlock finally decided to speak up.

 ”Well, since no one else is going to ask, I suppose it’s up to me”.  All three looked at him, though Tessa’s view was partially blocked by her flowers.  Having their attention, he continued, a curious tone to his voice, “Why in heaven’s name are you carrying around a potted plant, Ms. DeMauro?”  Silence hung upon the little group in the aftermath of his question.

Tessa smiled, looked down a moment, then slid the pot to the side a bit so as to be able to meet Sherlock’s eyes directly, “It’s Tessa, please.” she said, arching a brow (which John—being a red-blooded male— interpreted as clearly flirtatious).  Sherlock merely nodded in acknowledgement of her request.  Having the floor, she continued, “And it’s a little joke at my expense, I suppose.”

Sherlock looked like he had not expected such an answer; he took a beat before asking, “Oh?  How so?”

Tessa seemed pleased to be speaking to him directly now, and it looked to John as though she planned to make the most of the opportunity.  Her smile looked downright mischievous as she answered ”A couple of the boys on crew have been teasing me, maintaining that understudies don’t get any of the glory.  So I told them it was up to them to do something about it.  This,” Tessa swept her hand theatrically to indicate the plant, “was their solution.” 

Sherlock half-smiled at this, which Tessa’s echoed back to him with a self-deprecatory shrug of her shoulders.  His gaze remained upon her, until she looked down, cleared her throat, and then took a long swallow from her glass.  John could sense there was more Sherlock wanted to say, but he seemed to be biding his time. He felt compelled to introduce a new topic.

"So, Tessa," he began, "have you been back home since I saw you last?"  She turned toward John, shaking her head, "No, haven’t been able to afford it.  Till this show, most of the theatre I’ve been doing has been for love and very little—if any—money.  I even had to take a part time job to pay the bills."

"That would be at the store where we saw you, a few months back?" Sherlock interjected.  John noticed Sherlock’s attention had intensified; knowing him as he did, it occurred to John that Sherlock may have been waiting for the subject to come up.

Tessa nodded her head, smiling ruefully, “Yes, exactly.  As that sort of work goes, it’s a pretty good gig.  Hardly ever boring,” she laughed softly, adding, "and there’s many a time I have to call on my acting skills to deal with difficult customers. Oh, but if they only knew my subtext!”  She lifted her wineglass in a mock toast, and drained the contents.

"So then," Sherlock went on, never breaking eye contact with her, "that would include using a dialect while serving your customers?"

Tessa’s smile grew wide, “Old acting trick,” she replied, “lots of the best employ it.  Keeping up the dialect—not switching back and forth—helps reinforce muscle memory.  Makes it easier to maintain it in performance.”

Sherlock’s face registered an “ah-ha” as the pieces fell into place, his curiosity now satisfied. He at last sat back, looking more relaxed than he had since they’d entered the bar.  He finished his drink in a long swallow, set his glass down, and wiped his lips.

John rolled his eyes as the realization hit him; the reason Sherlock had suggested Tessa join them for drinks.  He’d wanted to answer those couple of questions.  Unable to deduce the answers handily, he’d set up the situation so as to obtain them anyway.  John looked to his friend, shaking his head and smiling, both amazed and irritated at the lengths Sherlock had been willing to go.  Not surprised though—never surprised. 

Mrs. Hudson seemed to be fading a bit; the cocktails she’d consumed, combined with the lateness of the hour, had her yawning.  When John noticed, he knew it was time for their little party to wind down for the evening.  He flagged down the nearest server and asked him to let their waitress know they were ready to settle their bill.  Tessa pulled her wallet from her handbag, but John quickly made it clear she had been their guest. He wondered, though, if Sherlock might make good and contribute towards the tab.

John needn’t have been concerned; when the waitress presented the bill, Sherlock was quick to take it, handing it back to the young woman with full payment and tip.  Though it astonished John, he felt it was a fair beginning, as he had fronted the money for dinner and the theatre tickets.

The bill paid, the group grabbed their jackets, heading for the door, planning to catch a cab.  Mrs. Hudson had taken John’s arm, leaning on him a bit as she was indeed slightly tipsy.  A grin on his face, John motioned to Sherlock to look at their landlady.  Sherlock sighed and chuckled warmly.  He touched Tessa on the shoulder.  She turned to face him, surprised.

"Your floral arrangement—don’t you want to take it with you?" he asked, now sounding amused as he understood its significance.

"Oh, right,” she answered, for just a moment looking like she’d prefer to say no, “of course." Sherlock headed back and carried it from the table, placing in her open hands. She thanked him, and they both followed John and Mrs. Hudson out of the door.   

                                                  ********************************************************************************************

John gave Tessa’s address to the cabbie, then turned back to the ladies.  "It’s fairly close,” Tessa told him.  "Should just take a few minutes to get there.”  Silence filled the cab.  Mrs. Hudson, ever the pleasant hostess, chimed in “So dear, how long have you lived here?”

"Nearly four years," Tessa told her.  "I was renting a studio when I first arrived, cramped but cheap.  This was Hal’s place."  She stole a look at John, "After the engagement, Hal insisted I move in, figuring we’d make this our starter…"  Tessa trailed off, looking down at the plant in her lap.  "I didn’t know until later, but he’d taken out an insurance policy for just in case…..you know…"  The cab was dark, but there was no doubt as to Tessa’s emotions at that moment; even Sherlock could tell she was holding back tears. "Anyway," she continued gamely, "it was enough to help me keep the flat and continue some of my classes, without having to worry about the rent until just recently."

Mrs. Hudson took the girl’s hand in hers.  ”I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.  But you must be very proud of your Hal.”

Tessa nodded, and met Mrs. Hudson's sympathetic smile with a small smile of her own.  ”Oh I am,  I am.  Everyday I draw breath.” She sighed deeply and changed the subject, “We’re nearly there now.”

"Mrs. Hudson, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind keeping this for me."  The older woman looked puzzled, until Tessa continued, "This thing will absolutely be dead within the week if I keep it.  I have no skill with plants of any kind, and it would be a shame to waste it, don’t you think?"  

Mrs. Hudson nodded, taking the planter from Tessa.  ”Of course, dear, I know the perfect spot for it as well, plenty of sunshine.  It’ll do very nicely.”  

With that, the taxi pulled along the curb of a neat, three-story brownstone.  "This is me,” Tessa said, turning to Mrs. Hudson, “It was lovely meeting you.”  Mrs. Hudson gently squeezed Tessa’s hand, “Dear, it was lovely meeting  _you_.  And I so enjoyed your performance!”

Tessa smiled, looking slightly embarrassed by Mrs. Hudson’s enthusiastic praise,“You are really too kind, Mrs. Hudson.  Thank you.”  She leaned slightly forward so as to address Sherlock, “Pleasure meeting you again, Mr. Holmes.” He dipped his head at her in acknowledgement.  _  
_

Tessa reached for the handle, to find John already opening the door for her.  She smiled very warmly at him, then got out.  ”I’m just so delighted you sent backstage for me, John.  It was a wonderful surprise.”  John nodded, smiling back, “Well, I’m very glad to see how well things are working out for you. I really enjoyed the show, and I’ll bet this will only lead to bigger things for you.”

Tessa tilted her head slightly, trying to discern if there was more truth than flattery in his statement, finally laughing softly,  ”Well, next big part I get, I’ll expect _you_ to be first in line then.”  She gave him a light embrace and a peck on the cheek.  ”Please keep in touch, okay?  I rarely hear from any of Hal’s friends anymore, and it does my heart good to share some memories of him with people who knew him.”

John could hear the sadness behind her bravado and nodded his head.  "I will, Tessa, I will. You take care now.”  She gave a little shrug of her shoulders and walked to door, unlocking it and slipping quietly into the building.  John turned to the taxi, climbing back in. “221 Baker Street, please,” he told the cabbie.  

John barely waited as the cab pulled away from the curb. “Sherlock,” he asked, a steely note in his voice, “please tell me you didn’t orchestrate that whole ‘let’s meet the actress, let’s have some drinks’ thing just to satisfy your curiosity about Tessa’s working at the ASDA?”  Certainly a rhetorical question, but John intended to call the detective on it.

"Why John, whatever makes you think I would do something like that?" Sherlock’s reply was completely deadpan, but his involuntary smirk gave the true answer away.  John shook his head, and turned to look out the window. 

Several quiet minutes passed as they wove through the light, late night traffic.  Sherlock finally broke the silence, “So John, you have her number.  Will you be calling her anytime soon?”  He narrowed his eyes a bit, waiting for the answer.  Mrs. Hudson looked towards John as well, curious for the answer herself.

John took a moment, inhaling deeply, and turned to face them.  ”No, that um…” he paused, searching for how he wanted to answer,”…I don’t really think that would be appropriate, do you?”  He was not surprised to see an uncomprehending expression on Sherlock’s face.  Mrs. Hudson understood immediately of course. John pursed his lips, then continued, speaking directly to his friend, “She was engaged to one of my mates, Sherlock. Do I have to add he was killed in service?”  Anyone else needing to have that explained would have infuriated John, but he knew Sherlock truly didn’t appreciate how untenable a question it was. He softened his tone, “I could never think of her in……well…..those terms.”  Sherlock nodded, clearly getting John’s full meaning.

One side of John’s mouth moved slightly up into a crooked smile. “Besides which,” he teased Sherlock, “I think she was rather keen on  _you_.” Mrs. Hudson gave a little” oh yes” of quiet agreement, turning to see Sherlock’s response.

Sherlock’s face registered no reaction, but for a slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw.  He snorted and turned to look out the window.  John and Mrs. Hudson shared a look of amusement and choose no further comment on the matter, although it did keep John smiling all the way back to their flat.

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was more than satisfied with his morning’s work: the confirmation of his suspicions in the case that John had vigorously insisted they take despite Sherlock’s several objections.  As he had expected, it had turned out to be very easy to discover the young man’s secrets, and this lack of any real challenge had been the foremost reason Sherlock hadn’t wanted to accept the work to begin with. But it was now done, and the payoff would far exceed the amount of effort he’d had to expend.  At the very least, the fee would compensate in a small part for what he had considered to be a waste of his valuable time—and for enduring the inevitable boredom he had experienced throughout the “investigation”.

As the morning passed and the early fog burned off, Sherlock found the spring sunshine and moderate temperatures pleasant enough to walk a while on his journey back to Baker Street.  The fresh air was invigorating, and it gave him the opportunity to continue an uninterrupted chain of thought, which was less likely than when taking a taxi back, should he have the misfortune of a chatty cabbie.  Sherlock was considering how best to report his findings to their client, and easily decided that  _that_  task should definitely fall to John.  It was only fair, after all.

Mrs. Madeline Whitmire had, at first, tried to arrange for the duo to come to her home for an initial meeting, which Sherlock had rejected outright despite her social prominence.  Such things had never held any sway with him.  A client was, simply, someone in need of his services; that need was the greatest equalizer he had encountered in his line of work, and he strictly maintained the policy that he would never go hat-in-hand in search of casework. As his reputation grew (bringing with it, at times, unpleasant prominence) he had ample enough offerings to be able to choose the most stimulating cases.  In this instance, John’s determination was dogged enough to circumvent Sherlock’s will—but then, he knew he  _had_  to give John one from time to time, in the interest of their friendship.

Mrs. Whitmire’s daughter and sole heir, Emmeline, had become involved with a personable young man of seeming good family, sterling reputation, and the best of educational opportunities. The girl was smitten to the point of distraction; the mother was quick to stress that this was her daughter’s first serious relationship, and she felt Emmy was clearly out of her depth, as she refused to listen to reason, even threatening to elope if her mother continued to try and interfere in the affair. Mother Whitmire’s gut instinct told her the man was not entirely what he appeared to be; a lifetime of guarding her fortune from interlopers having sharply honed her instincts in that regard.  Extremely distressed, she finally contacted Sherlock, hoping that hiring the “best” as she called him (Sherlock found no flattery in this as it was simply the Truth), would be the key to unmasking the young man’s true history and motivations.

It was obvious to Sherlock at that first meeting, that John had been very moved by the woman’s passion for protecting her girl, and the dilemma the situation presented.  He had asked to speak to Sherlock privately as the meeting had wound down and it appeared Sherlock was unlikely to take the case.  John argued briefly in favor of the case by trying to get Sherlock to take sympathy on the woman; but knowing that was only an outside possibility, he pointed out Whitmire had offered a sum nowhere near in line with their fees for such a case; in fact, one with an extra zero attached that could certainly see them through any rough financial patches they might encounter in the extended future.

In light of John’s determination—and that extra zero—Sherlock had agreed to take the case, with the hope it would be resolvable quickly and with as little fuss as possible.  This morning, it had been. He had discovered much of the young man’s history to be a sham, with falsified records and bribes ensuring he looked good on paper.  Sherlock had also gathered that it wasn’t the first time he’d run such a scam; the current bribes having been financed by previous escapades.  The rogue was completely amoral, and in the collection of facts Sherlock deduced that—should the girl plight herself to him—he had the wit and avarice to see she eventually met an untimely accident.

If that wasn’t enough, Sherlock had discovered “Patrick” (one of several aliases) had a secret little love nest in a squalid part of the east end of London.  There he discovered not one, but two teenage boys—Patrick’s lovers—who swore (when threatened with jail as accomplices to the fraud) that he’d promised to set them up for life, when he “came into” his own. 

Sherlock had sent a text off to John, with a brief summation of his findings.  Once John informed their client, the check would clear and he could put the trivial matter in his “delete” file, then on to better—or at least more interesting—pursuits.  

His path had led him by an open air market, an array of street peddlers showing a wide variety of goods, and food carts presenting diverse choices that made the atmosphere of the market festive with scents of good, native, comfort foods, as well as the more exotic aromas of foreign offerings.  There were several flower vendors as well; the bright, early spring weather was perfect enough to feature dozens of species of locally grown flora, as well as more delicate varieties that would have been imported from warmer climes or been the result of hothouse cultivation.

Of course, Sherlock would normally not have noticed the flowers, lovely as they were—except for the rows of potted tulips in a rainbow of colors, lining part of the walkway. Tulips, most likely imported from Holland.  He paused a moment, chuckling quietly, recalling the last tulips he had seen; those very silly tulips of the night before.

For a conventional man, the sight of those tulips in the spring sunshine might evoke fond thoughts of a charming woman and a pleasant evening past.  With Sherlock, things could never be that simple.

Yet, Sherlock didn’t even realize he was smiling, merely remembering the incongruous sight of Tessa’s tulips sitting upon the pub table, and the way she had seemed to relish their absurdity.  She had been quite self-deprecating about it, and he had concluded from that—and the course the evening’s conversation had followed—that she had a keen and very apt sense of humor.  Denoting, in his estimation, a well-educated mind.  Of course that would be the case; her resume of past roles spoke well for not only talent, but intelligence.  One simply couldn’t carry such things off with the vapid mind of an ordinary actress. 

Upon consideration, too, Sherlock thought perhaps the overweening vanity one might expect in a woman of her calling would have prevented a sense of humor about the joke.  Mayhap that flaw existed in Tessa, but in smaller proportions than an actress might normally demonstrate.  By these several observations, Sherlock felt he could conclude she was atypical of gender and profession.

And her performance had been vivid, richly emotional, light of touch and utterly feminine, even in those moments when she was disguised as Cesario.  He wondered if the actress playing the role on a regular basis brought those same elements to her portrayal, though in retrospect he was pleased they had seen Tessa’s version.  As Shakespeare’s comedies went,  _Twelfth Night_  was one of the more tolerable ones. Normally, he would never have attended such a production—it was all John’s doing, to please Mrs. Hudson on her birthday.  It had simply required Sherlock’s presence and to have him not behave too boorishly throughout.  He tended to enjoy Shakespeare’s tragedies (avoiding the romantic comedies like the plague he considered them to be), fascinated by how the playwright had captured uncannily, so much of humanity’s frailties as well as its occasional glories.  It was as likely to be the tone Tessa had set—as the lead for the evening—as any other aspect of the production, that made it work as well as it did. Pity, that as the understudy, her work was overshadowed by the regular lead.  And pity too, that those fools on the crew couldn’t find a better way to pay tribute to Tessa’s fine characterization.  

What might be the detriment, he thought, in paying his respects for her worthy performance, and doing so in a manner more appropriate than the joke the tulips had seemed to be?  Surely that was an error he could easily correct, and with the good manners of a gentleman to boot.  But what would be the best way to proceed?

He glanced around him again, at the multitude of color, realizing the answer was conveniently at hand.  A rich varietal bouquet should suffice.  Not roses though, never something so hackneyed and trite (and obviously open to misinterpretation as a _romantic_ gesture).  Only something as bright as Tessa’s performance itself would serve.  An array of wildflowers then, to capture to breath of Spring, the zest of youth, the softness of her Viola.  

Pleased with his brilliant idea, Sherlock immediately set about to make it so.  Said flowers would have to be delivered; not merely as a question of convenience (the theatre being relatively close at hand) but because he had other more important things to attend to.  He scanned several of the flower vendors to see if his plan for delivery was practical; otherwise he’d be forced to go to an actual florist shoppe, and he wasn’t so committed to the idea that he was willing to do that.  Two booths down from where he stood, he noticed a young woman sitting amongst a display of daffodils, irises and tulips, reading quietly (the book,  _The Fault in Our Stars_ ).  Though she seemed to be absorbed in the story, she appeared to be keeping an eye on foot traffic, likely prepared to meet eagerly the first paying customer that stepped her way.  There was a ten-speed bicycle leaning against the back wall, it’s tires securely chained (obviously to prevent theft, should she become busy enough to not be able to monitor it); a faux number plate hanging below the seat read “Jacky”. The bike’s availability suggested the vendor offered some sort of delivery service.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, striding resolutely in her direction, "I wonder, how much for a bunch of those, all mixed together?”  Sherlock swung his arm in the general direction of the locally grown wildflowers on display."

"How big a bunch d’ya need?" she asked, shading her eyes as she looked up at him.  As she stood up she wedged a blank sales receipt in the book to mark her place, then laid it on her stool.

Sherlock paused; he hadn’t even considered that question.  What do ladies like, he wondered.  He narrowed his eyes in thought, putting genuine effort into coming up with an answer, finally responding, “Well, roughly this size.”  He pantomimed a sphere-shape with his hands, somewhat smaller than a standard size football.

The girl looked like she was doing some rough calculating in her head before answering “Run ya an even seven.  What’ll it be then?”

He looked back at the selection in front of him, growing a bit impatient.  He hadn’t anticipated such a little to request to require so much thought.  Sherlock shook his head, brusquely, “A good variety, bright color.  Whatever that seven pounds will buy me.”

She looked at him strangely, making a little scoffing sound.  ”Sure, sir.  I’m sure I can make up something lovely.  For a lady, is it?”  She was smiling at him crookedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  This was exactly what he _hadn’t_  wanted to deal with.  ”Fine, that will be fine.”  He reached for his wallet, had a second thought, then pulled his notebook and pen from an inside breast pocket of his coat.   He jotted down the theatre name and street address, pulled off the sheet of paper, and handed it to the girl along with the money.

"What’s this for?" she asked, indicating his scrap of paper.

"For delivery" Sherlock motioned with his head towards her bike, "You _can_  do that, can’t you…Jacky?” adding her name at the last in an effort to ingratiate himself a bit.  

The girl gave a little whistle, “Okay, but that’s gonna cost a bit more.”

Sherlock sighed, his patience wearing thin, “Yes?”

Jacky held up her right hand, flashing all five fingers.  Sherlock pulled the money from his wallet, handing her the balance.  ”And I need that delivered by 6pm.  You can manage that, can’t you?”

"No problem, sir,” she replied, "I’ll take care of it myself once my da gets back."

Sherlock nodded, happy to conclude the entire business.  As he turned to leave, he realized he’d missed one small detail.  ”Um…Jacky” he said, trying to sound more even-toned, “do you have one of those little cards I could tuck in the bouquet?”  

"You want to include a message too?” she asked.  Sherlock wondered for a trice if she was going to charge him extra for that as well, until she handed him a little card that read "Thinking of You" at the top, and a small envelope to go with it.  He took a moment, reflecting on just what to write.  As he began to pen his message, a small smile creased one side of his mouth; by the end he was chortling to himself.  He then handed the card back to the very cheeky florist, nodding to her as he said thank you.

Congratulating himself on another task well and successfully completed, Sherlock rewarded himself with a treat of chocolate gelato from the nearest booth featuring Italian pastries and treats.  The day was turning out to be bright in many regards, and he looked forward to spending the afternoon back at his flat; there were a couple of experiments he had been delaying until this case had been resolved, and he had hours and hours ahead to finally, fully indulge in them.

* * *

 

Tessa arrived at the theatre that evening earlier than her call of 6:30.  She had rushed through sorting out her costumes the night before, when she had gotten the message that there was an old friend asking for her at front of house, so she wanted to be sure everything was in order and set for the performance ahead.  Sylvie and Jenna were already getting into makeup when she entered the large, common dressing room.  Jenna gave a loud wolf-whistle in Tessa's direction. "Oy," she shouted over to Tessa, "where'd you disappear to last night?" Jenna pursed her lips in a bit of a pout, "I'd thought maybe we could go out for drinks, but when I turned around you were gone."

Tessa shook her head and grinned, "Oh sorry about that--there was an old friend of Hal's in the audience, he sent back to let me know he was here."

Jenna chuckled, "That explains it then.  I guess I can't hold it against you when there's a man involved."  She turned back to her mirror to apply more eyeliner.

"No,” Tessa was quick to point out, "it wasn't anything like  _that_.  We haven't seen each other in years and we just did a little bit of catching up."  Tessa left her handbag on the seat next to her flame-haired friend, and walked over to the costume rack, rifling through the items to be sure all her costume pieces were in proper order.

"Are you sure about that?" Sylvie asked, wrapping a section of her hair around a curling iron.  "It looks like this friend sent you something.”  She waited until Tessa turned her way, and then pointed out the vase filled with wildflowers, sitting at the end of the makeup table.  "That," she said pointing to it, "came for you....”  Jenna interrupted eagerly, "Yes, and we've been waiting forever for you to get here and open the card and spill  _everything_ about last night!”  

Tessa looked surprised; it had been lovely seeing John and meeting his friends, but she hadn't thought of the evening as any more than a casual drink or two.  The flowers were a wonderful treat and she was certain that if John had sent them, it was only a platonic little follow-up to getting reacquainted.  She'd have to make that clear to her friends, and especially Jenna, whose lust for..... _life_.....colored how she viewed all business between men and women. Tessa moved over to get a closer look at the bouquet, and removed the card to read it.

Jenna and Sylvie both paused to watch their friend’s reaction.  As Tessa read the card, they saw her look of astonishment melt into a soft look of delight.  She bit her lip and smiled at them.

"So?" Jenna nearly shouted, unable to contain her curiosity.

"Well, they’re not from Hal’s friend," Tessa teased, drawing out the suspense. 

"So?" Sylvie echoed, interest now growing.

Tessa’s eyes were bright in her amusement.  She fanned herself with the card and envelope, adopting an exaggerated southern drawl as she said “My goodness isn’t this just the prettiest little pickle?  I may have a suitor after all.”

Jenna could brook no further delay.  She rose to grab the card from Tessa, who pulled it out of her reach, laughing, “Hold on now, a little patience please”. She cleared her throat dramatically, to read the card aloud, “ _Ms. DeMauro_ …” she paused and looked at the women pointedly, before continuing, “ _Thoroughly enjoyed your Viola.  Your interpretation was vibrant & passionate, and thus quite fetching.  Brava_.”  Tessa gave a little bow, and tucked the card back into the envelope.  She made as though she was returning to the costume rack, when both women shouted their objections.  

"Really?" Sylvie asked, exasperated, " so if it’s not from that old friend, who  _is_  it from?”

Tessa drew a very deep sigh, smiling mischievously.  The card had been signed “ _Sherlock Holmes_ ”, which thrilled her to no end.  But she wasn’t sure yet if she wanted to share that information; she knew he was somewhat famous, and as much as she loved and trusted her friends, she didn’t want it to be general knowledge throughout the cast and crew that he had sent her the bouquet.  Which it would certainly be should she reveal it to the irrepressible Jenna.  ”I think I’ll just keep that to myself for the time being, if it’s all the same.”

 Sylvie shook her head and set about to finish curling her hair, as she asked “What’s he like then?”

Tessa gave it a thought before answering, “A very interesting gentleman…very…” she paused to find the exact word, “…intriguing.”  She looked as though she was contemplating a deliscious secret.   

Jenna’s expression looked stormy, but that soon dissolved into a pouty smile. “You can at least tell us, is he good looking?  You owe us that at least.”

Tessa smiled even more broadly, “Well, yes he is. Handsome— very handsome—in an old-fashioned kind of way.  In fact, back home we’d call him a tall drink of water." She pulled the card out of the envelope again, rereading it and lingering a moment on the PS.  She thought his note couldn’t have ended more perfectly:  ” _A floral arrangement should never be an impediment to good conversation,_   _don’t you think?  S_.” Under her breath, Tessa repeated, marveling, “A very tall, very  _cool_  drink of water indeed.”  She closed her eyes, allowing herself a few moments to fancy just how she could go about capturing the further attention of the enigmatic Holmes.  It most likely would be a challenge, but she was young enough to believe anything is possible, and Spring seemed to be the perfect time for such an adventure to commence. 

 

_(to be continued)_

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This one is a bit longer than the other chapters. I hope you can bear with me, Kind Reader, as I'm quite attached to the "payoff" at the end.)

The potential client sitting in the front room of their flat was a non-starter. Sherlock was certain of this; any novice detective would have been able to adeptly handle the case he was relating. As was standard for such a situation, John was listening attentively, asking questions as he felt were needed, and jotting down notes. Sherlock's scowl was growing as the boredom took on staggering proportions. He could tell John was interested in this case however, and Sherlock would shortly have to deliver the news to both men that it simply would not be worth the oxygen he'd consume to take even a single step towards investigation.

He was preparing to tell them just so, when his phone alerted him to a text. Thank god, he thought, something,  _anything_ , to alleviate the sound of the man in the client chair droning on. He frankly didn't even care who it might be from, so long as it allowed him to leave the room on pretext of it being something crucial.

When he rose from his seat, John passed him a curious and somewhat irritated look; Sherlock responded by holding up his phone and mouthing "it's important". Not bothering to wish a good day and good luck to the unfortunate begging their services, Sherlock moved into the kitchen, opening the message

" _Your wildflowers were perfectly lovely; your words even more so. Thank you, Kind Sir. —Tessa_ "

Sherlock was duly impressed. As he'd surmised, the lady  _was_  resourceful enough to have obtained a number to text him without contacting John Watson. His friend certainly would have mentioned it if she had. Conclusion—she'd likely checked Sherlock's website for his mobile number. Bright  _and_ resourceful, and surely worth a second meeting. But  _only_  in the interest of studying the idiosyncrasies of her gender, specifically in relation to her line of work. He'd already discovered she didn't fit his preconceived notions of "actress" and he was curious as to how far those discrepancies extended. Just curious and nothing more.

John was now calling to him, the inevitable question as to whether they would take the client on. Sherlock waved it off without a backward glance, reading her text through again as he walked into his bedroom.

John was left—as was often the case-to make apologies to the hapless man. Or has he had done a time or two in the past (and might certainly do again) take the case himself. It didn't matter to Sherlock, for there was something far less boring in the offing.

And so it was, the very next evening that Sherlock found himself following up a lead in the same neighborhood where the off-West End production of  _Twelfth_   _Night_ was being performed.

His business conveniently concluded, and coinciding with what he remembered to be the curtain call of the show, he decided that such a second meeting might be in order. He fired off a text.

" _A minor case has me a couple blocks from the theatre at the moment. Perhaps you would care to join me for a late supper? Sherlock Holmes_ "

It was several minutes before his phone buzzed, letting him know he'd received a response,  _"Your timing couldn't be better. Would enjoy_   _that very much_."

So far, so well, he thought. A longer conversation over dinner with Tessa might serve to satisfy his questions of perception versus reality. So long as she didn't see it as anything more than dinner, of course, for that certainly was not his intent. Sherlock considered how long a walk it would be to the theatre, and approximated how much time she might require to conclude whatever business she needed with costume and makeup (he had not failed to notice that when she joined them for drinks that evening past, she was no longer wearing heavy stage makeup, but something lighter, fresher and, incidentally, quite becoming). He quickly typed out another text,  _"The stage door then in say, 20 minutes?_ "

Her response came much faster this time,  _"Perfect. Will see you there._ "

Sherlock tucked his phone into the breast pocket of his overcoat, and set off in the direction of the Theatre Royal, with a definite spring in his step that he would  _never_  dream of owning up to.

* * *

 

Tessa sat staring at the phone in her hand, blinking as her surprise grew to outright delight. She had gambled the day before by sending Sherlock a text to thank him for the flowers—and had been sadly disappointed when he had not sent a response. Every time her phone had gone off that day, she'd hoped it might be him; and as the hours progressed, she began to berate herself for foolishly thinking there had been any spark of interest on his part. By the time she reached the theatre for her call, Tessa had turned the damn thing off so she could focus on the job ahead, doing her best to squelch the growing irritability she felt over misreading the situation, regretting getting her hopes up.

When Jenna suggested catching a late picture after their performance, Tessa begged off, explaining that she didn't feel herself and just wanted the day to be over. She told her friends she just needed to burrow under the covers and sleep ten hours straight at least. Neither Jenna nor Sylvie guessed it was disappointment that had put her so out of sorts, wishing her sweet dreams as they parted company. Tessa rather hoped for no dreams at all, just the obliviousness of slumber.

But all that had changed tonight, with his text; an invitation to dinner, no less! Knowing she had plenty of time until she would meet him, Tessa aimed to pace herself through her after-show rituals, but her mind wandered as she tried to imagine how the evening might proceed. She had dated very little since losing Hal; that was natural of course, but even as she shed her mourning, Tessa remained disinterested in male companionship, let alone the possibility of romance. She'd immersed herself in work instead, whenever she could, finding fulfillment enough that she only felt lonely in the wee, quiet hours of the night. But something about this particular man had reminded her there was a whole other side of her prime she was missing out on—and she was suddenly eager to make up for lost time.

Tessa made a final check of her blush and lipstick, striving to look casually put together, as though she hadn't given it a second thought. Glancing in the mirror, she couldn't help but notice the excited gleam of her eyes. It gave her pause; she looked far too eager than she'd want to let on to the gentleman in question. "Really, Tessa," she muttered to herself, "It's only dinner after all. Get a grip!" She closed her eyes, taking a couple of long, calming breaths, shaking her head as she shook off the silliness of overly high expectations. Opening her eyes, Tessa nodded a firm affirmation in the mirror, and picked up her coat and handbag and headed for the stage door.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the shadows beside the stage door, watching various cast and crew members leaving individually or in small groups, casually deducing the occasional ones he thought stood out from the others. He spotted Tessa as soon as she stepped out of the door; she was glancing around, looking to see where he was. He stepped towards her, as she was turned away, clearing his throat softly, "Ms. DeMauro?" She turned to him, looking a little surprised he had come out of the dark, but smiling nonetheless, "Mr. Holmes, please don't be so formal, it's Tessa."

"Of course," he replied with a nod, "and that makes me…" She finished it for him, "Sherlock." Her expression looked mildly amused, putting him at ease. "Shall we then?" he said, turning to walk out of the little alleyway. Tessa was puzzled by his abrupt move, but stepped quickly to walk by his side. His strides were far longer than hers, and despite the fact she was wearing flats, it wasn't long until he had pulled in front of her by about a dozen steps.

"Hold on," she said, slightly out of breath, "are we running against the clock to get to the restaurant? Because I'm not up to this pace." Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning back to face her as she caught up to him. Despite the strangeness of his behavior, Tessa was doing her best to remain good-humored. "So, just where are we going anyway?" she asked, "Because now I've worked up a good appetite."

Sherlock smiled, but she couldn't help but notice there was a false note to it. Okay, she thought, we seem to be getting on the wrong track here, take a moment and get things under control. "How about this," Tessa posed, slipping her hand onto his arm, "just so I don't fall behind." He looked down at her hand, seemingly taken aback, considering it a few moments. His answer came out haltingly, "Um…yes…that should…be fine." His brow remained knit, as though he was processing new information that didn't seem to fit with the already known. Tessa found the effect endearing.

"It's a few streets over," he told her, "we could take a taxi if that would be easier." He looked at her expectantly, until she answered, "Oh, no need for that. It's a beautiful night, why don't we enjoy it a bit?"

Sherlock nodded again, and this time his smile seemed more relaxed and genuine. Tessa smiled back, her eyes coyly lingering on his. "This way," he said, motioning with a toss of his head in the direction they were to follow, "I hope you like Italian."

* * *

 

Sherlock watched Tessa as she perused the menu, interested to see where her tastes would lie. "It all looks wonderful," she said, still reading the offerings. "Can you suggest anything?"

Sherlock had only eaten there on one occasion, and the experience had been quite satisfactory. "They make a fantastic Alfredo sauce," he told her, "if you like that sort of thing."

"Really?" she replied, looking up from the menu. "That's my absolute favorite." Her face showed no sign that she was agreeing with him merely because he suggested it; he appreciated her lack of artifice in the matter. He glanced down at his menu, although he was already fairly certain what he planned to order.

The waiter joined them, pen and order pad in hand. Tessa looked up at him, saying "I'll have the Chicken Alfredo, dressing for the salad on the side please" She gave a moments more consideration, then added, "Oh, and a glass of your house white.", handing him the menu. He turned to Sherlock.

"I'll have the same as the lady," he told the waiter, "and make that a bottle of chardonnay." Sherlock consulted the wine list at the back of the menu, "Hmmm…yes," He looked satisfied, pleased with the selection he'd made, telling the waiter, "Make it the 2010 Goisot, please."

"Excellent choice, sir." their waiter affirmed, bustling off to place their order.

"That should go quite nicely with what you've selected." Sherlock could tell he had impressed Tessa a bit, although that was  _not_ his intent; picking the right wine was just a necessary compliment to any good meal.

He noticed that Tessa had reached to the locket she wore, fingering it, perhaps absentmindedly. It looked like a fine piece of jewelry, its delicate chain holding a pale gold heart, ornamented with florals in light and dark rose tones. It didn't take his exceptional powers of deduction to conclude it was a gift from her late fiancée; and for certain it would contain at least one image of the man. Sherlock didn't recall seeing it on her the evening they had met. He surmised from how she handled it now that it gave her a sense of security or confidence in facing a new social situation.

Tessa noticed him noticing, and her lids dropped demurely, before she let go the locket and reached for her water glass. He pondered if he should say something-tell her he wasn't staring, just wondering about the memento-when the waiter returned with the bottle of wine, presenting it to Sherlock for his approval before uncorking it. Sherlock nodded and the waiter opened the bottle, offering him the cork, which Sherlock choose to wave off. The server poured a small amount into his wineglass, then stepped back to allow Sherlock to sample it. He took his time doing this, observing the color and clarity, and then inhaling the aroma, finally taking a sip and swishing about in his mouth a bit. "That will be fine." he told the waiter, who proceeded to first fill Tessa's glass, dabbing the mouth of the bottle between pours to prevent any drips, and then Sherlock's. He left the bottle on the side of the table for them.

So…" Sherlock said, after the waiter had departed, "Tessa would be the diminutive for," he paused for effect only, as he'd already deduced her probable answer, "Teresa?" With his accent and particular flair for language, it sounded like "Tear-eza" to her. It brought an immediate smile to her face.

"Yes." Tessa replied, grinning, "Theresa Angeline. Family names on both sides. But when I decided I wanted to be an actress, and I mean for real, not just a preteen fantasy," she paused, taking a sip of her wine, "I knew I had to change it."

Sherlock tilted his head, curious. "And why would that be?"

Tessa chuckled softly, "Because Theresa DeMauro sounded too much like a little old Italian grandmother, complete with hair net, mustache and an ugly mole right here," she said, touching a spot below the side of her lips. "Tessa works much better as a stage name, although…" she bit her lip, a taste of flirtation about it, "it sounds quite exotic when  _you_  say it." She leaned across the table, lowering her voice to a more intimate level, "Say it again, please."

Sherlock felt as though he'd walked right into her little ploy, smirking slightly at the way she had quietly maneuvered him. "Theresa Angeline DeMauro." This time he stressed her middle name, waiting for her response. She was true to what he had already learned of her nature. "Ooooo, now  _that_  was lovely," she gave a little shiver of pleasure, "I could get used to that. Although I suppose it should just be plain Tessa for now." She looked down at her bracelet, fiddling with the charms.

Inexperienced as he was with flirtation, Sherlock could still tell she was fishing for a compliment. What harm could there be in acceding just a bit? "Oh, but you are anything  _but_  plain." He punctuated his statement by reaching for his wine glass and tilting it slightly towards her, before partaking.

Tessa nodded her head in acceptance of the compliment and lifted her wine stem in a little toast to thank him. She closed her eyes as she took another, longer drink of her wine. She appeared about to speak, when the waiter arrived with their salads.

They both started in on their salads, Tessa adding a small drizzle of dressing onto hers. After a few bites, she looked back to Sherlock, asking, "So you were on a case near the theatre? Was it anything exciting?"

Sherlock dabbed his mouth with his napkin before answering. "I needed to check the timing of foot traffic from Peabody Cross to Ratcliff Lane, taking into account, of course, the time of day, as that affects the flow of pedestrian movements.  A client's alibi depended on it."

"Really?" Tessa sounded genuinely interested. "Did it work out for your client?"

Sherlock nodded, "Indeed, it did. Although I'm now certain Scotland Yard will need my skills to identify the actual perpetrator."

Tessa marveled at this, "How thrilling must be the life you lead. I'd think never a dull moment."

Sherlock's first response would have been to correct her misconception, for in truth much of the work he did lacked the sort of challenge  _he_  would call thrilling. But Tessa looked a little awestruck and he suddenly found he preferred not to disappoint her expectations. Instead of telling her he often encountered boredom in the mix of cases he pursued, he answered simply, "It has its moments, although not enough for my tastes. Such rousing crimes of passion or brilliant mastermind offenders are rarer than the lurid tales one sees in the cheap press." He nodded as punctuation to his statement, then returned to his salad.

They briefly ate in silence, and the waiter soon brought their entrees, refilling their wine glasses and asking them if there was anything else they needed.

In due course, Sherlock asked her how she had come to study in London, and Tessa related her tale, brightly, descriptively, and with an entertainer's flourish. He marked well that she minimized mention of the man she was to have wed; he guessed it was a tender subject, so did not seek any greater detail on that matter. Before they'd realized it, Sherlock had finished his meal, and Tessa was close to finishing hers as well, before she folded her napkin and left it by her plate. Sherlock rose as she excused herself a moment, heading to the restroom; manners inculcated in him by his mother, but one he'd seldom had the opportunity to practice.

Reseating himself, Sherlock pressed his hands before him, leaning his lips against them; his classic pose of consideration. He appreciated what he felt was her sincere interest in his work. Tessa seemed an easy conversationalist and he realized in that moment he hadn't felt bored once since they'd sat down to supper. Her sense of humor was light of touch; she was articulate as well. But there was something about her that puzzled him still, something Sherlock couldn't quite catch a hold of. As baffling as it was, he thought he could conclude that his failure to "solve" this puzzle was due to his Achilles heel: his lack of natural instinct in the face of simple human nature. He thought, perhaps, this curiosity might make her worth the while of additional…..study.

Tessa returned to the table and he rose again, without a thought, and she gave him an appreciative smile, "I can't tell you how long it's been since I've seen a man do that." **  
**

"Hmm…archaic, I suppose," he replied.

"Not at all," she answered, smiling still, "The world could use more of that, if you ask me."

And then suddenly there was a measured silence, as though each had crossed a boundary and didn't know quite where to go next.

Tessa quickly found a way to fill the gap. "You know," she revealed, idly running a finger around the rim of her wineglass "I have to tell you, that day you stepped in for me at the service counter? It turned into quite a little legend around the store."

"Really?" Sherlock—the owner of an already near perfect posture—straightened even further, his interest arrested, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "Just how did that happen?"

"Well, word spread fairly quickly that the famous" Tessa paused a moment, to remember the precise way it had been phrased, "'detective in the hat' had stopped by the front counter and tossed a nasty customer right out the door."

Sherlock laughed quietly, "You corrected them, of course?"

"Well, not entirely," she replied, arching a brow, "While it wasn't as heroic as the stories spreading around the store seemed to make it, I think my description of the events left you shining fairly bright." There was a definite tease in the way Tessa had answered, intriguing enough to make him wonder just how she had painted his actions in the retelling.

Seeing she had whet his curiosity, Tessa continued. "Everyone wanted to know what you were really like. Made me the most popular girl in the break room for about two weeks. I must've retold the story at least a dozen times." She lifted her glass, finishing the contents. Sherlock picked up the bottle; when he went to pour, Tessa quickly stopped him when her glass was half full. "I have to be honest, though," her eyes widened and she leaned in to be more confidential, "I hadn't really heard of you until my coworkers clued me in." Tessa leaned back, expectant upon his response.

Sherlock drew a deep breath; he realized she was playing a little game, but found it a pleasant distraction. "And now? Might you know a bit more of my reputation?"

At this, a faint blush colored Tessa's cheeks. "Well…" she looked down, her hand stealing to the locket once again, moving it slightly back and forth upon its chain,"…after everything my coworkers were telling me, I just had to look you up online. A real wealth of information there, too, although I had to wonder how much was fact and how much was fiction." Tessa looked up at him again, her eyes merry with amusement. "I even came across your website."

"I'll bet that was nowhere near as entertaining as the gossip you could find online." Sherlock was watching her closely now; he was very interested in her answer, to see if her light, flirtatious air truly concealed the more serious intellect he'd sensed in her less guarded moments.

"Truthfully?" she took another swallow of wine, "it was somewhat drier than I'd expected, but pretty interesting when I took the time to really understand all the little details you were talking about." Sherlock hadn't needed that trifling bit of flattery—really, he  _never_  did after all—yet it was satisfying coming from such an unbiased observer.

"And…" Tessa added playfully, "I really like that hat on you. It…" she inhaled deeply, giving it thought, "…somehow it just..…works." There was an impishness in her expression that belayed his normal reaction to mention of "the hat". He settled, instead, for a roll of his eyes and a feigned huff of irritation, "Well let's just consider you said that under the influence, shall we?" he responded, indicating her nearly empty glass of wine. Tessa laughed softly at his jest.

The waiter, who had hung back until there was a break in the conversation, stepped forward to inquire if they wanted dessert. Tessa quickly exclaimed, "God no! I couldn't eat another bite." She and the waiter both turned to Sherlock. "I'll have the chocolate mousse cake with raspberry sauce." he responded, "And two forks please." The waiter nodded, collecting their dinner plates, then leaving the table.

Before Tessa could mount any objection, Sherlock told her, "You will be trying this treat. Not to be missed on any account." Tessa warmly smiled her consent.

* * *

Their once spirited conversation began to lag, then trailed off to silence as the cab brought them closer to Tessa's flat. She couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though Sherlock's quiet arose from a growing sense of discomfort. Dinner and their banter had been more than pleasant; Tessa's light flirtations seemed to have been answered in kind, and she thought they had developed a rapport of sorts in their mutual enjoyment of the meal, wine and dessert (she was glad, in the end, that he had insisted on her having some, and he appeared pleased with himself that he had ascertained correctly that she had a sweet tooth). But she was mystified over what had caused this sudden change in his demeanor, running through the events of the evening in her mind, taking a silent inventory of what she might have done to cause his seeming uneasiness.

Of course, Tessa could not have known—given the scant few days since she had met him—that Sherlock had only truly thought of the evening as "dinner" and not as a "date". And that despite his apparent rejoinders to her blithe flirtations, he was not prepared for-and even feared-the social convention of the goodnight kiss.

The taxi pulled along the curb in front of her door; the cabbie turned to Sherlock, who answered his unspoken question, "I'll be going on from here. A few minutes please?" He turned to the passenger side door without another word to Tessa or the driver, getting out and holding the door for her. He then closed the door behind her and walked beside her to the doorstep.

With any other man, Tessa had been able to read clear intention—how the evening might or might not proceed. Sherlock's statement to the cabbie short-circuited any plan she might have had to invite him in. She decided to counter that with an easy out for both of them, "So…um…" she said, stalling a moment as she decided the best road to take, "I have an early shift tomorrow at the store, so I really do need to turn in." To her dismay, Sherlock looked relieved.

Tessa did her best to disguise the disappointment she was feeling, continuing while trying to sound lighthearted, "But I had a lovely evening, the food, the wine, the company. Just lovely…"

Sherlock stammered back, clearly now uncomfortable but striving for the "normal" expected response. "Absolutely my pleasure," lapsing into an awkward silence and a smile that looked forced.

She knew she had to see this through to the end, as much as things had suddenly soured, "Thank you, Sherlock. And…goodnight then."

He nodded back to her the same sentiment, and then turned towards the taxi.

Tessa slid her key in the lock and opened the door a fraction. Her head was telling her to let it go; apparently he wasn't all that interested in her after all. That happens to everyone at some point, she thought ruefully. It was just a shame because she found Sherlock fascinating and very attractive.

But her instinctive side—the part of her that almost always ruled her decisions and choices—wasn't willing to let it pass just yet. In the seconds she had left, she turned back to see Sherlock opening the cab door, preparing to get in. She called his name, trying to sound confident and casual, "Sherlock?" He immediately tuned to face her, and in that instant she was gratified to see surprise in his expression.

Tessa continued, vowing not to waste this opportunity, "Please don't be a stranger."

Sherlock looked decidedly perplexed, raising a brow. It appeared as though he planned to answer, but Tessa knew  _she_  must control the moment. She breathed deeply, drawing herself perfectly straight, raising her chin regally, "I'd be disappointed not to see you again." And as much as she wanted to see his reaction, she made the cunning choice—turning away and exiting the scene through her doorway.

Sherlock was left on the sidewalk, outfoxed and intrigued, precisely as Tessa had hoped. He climbed into the back seat, a smile growing slowly as he realized she had played her part perfectly—for he surely couldn't let her closing volley go unanswered. He sat back, brushing his index finger across his lips, ruminating upon the small surprises she had already presented and the promise of more such—if he should decide to follow the course she'd clearly indicated was on her mind.

As the cab wended its way to his home, Sherlock continued his efforts to decipher what it was about Tessa he believed lay beneath the carefree disposition she projected. There was something Sherlock had seen behind the glint of mischief in her eyes, behind the sidelong glances Tessa had sent his way when she thought he wasn't noticing; something he had heard behind her pretty laugh, its music easy on the ears. Sherlock was not a man who'd be inclined to ask—and surely not knowing her so briefly—but he supposed it was the business of her late fiancée that could explain these things.

John Watson would probably tell him that was it. Of course, he could not see himself even broaching the topic. But Sherlock couldn't guess the whole of John's probable response: that the sadness behind the light of her eyes and the quiet pain behind the music of her laughter—these were mirrors of Sherlock's own buried troubles and heartaches. John might even have told him that they made a likely pairing for that very reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sherlock & Tessa's story continues in "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes (or Ginger CAN Distract the Man)]


End file.
